Work Text:
Puckerman taking advantage of once-in-a-lifetime shot
By Finn Hudson/MLB.com @FinnHudson
Port St. Lucie, Florida
Noah Puckerman knows opportunities like his don’t come around every season. With the Mets, who lived and died with future Hall of Famer David Wright for 15 years, they’re even harder to come by. But if his team still harbors any lingering doubts that their brand-new third baseman is unaware of the rarefied space he’s occupying, Puckerman, (“everyone just calls me ‘Puck’”) is happy to put them to rest.
“We were doing wind sprints today, and when I got to third base, I just stood there and looked around for a second. Probably more than a second,” he admits with a grin that seems to come easily. “It’s overwhelming and humbling and so awesome. I can’t wait to get the chance to reward this organization for their faith in me.”
The 25-year-old was awarded the starting job in a press conference January 15th, less than three weeks after Wright had announced his retirement. It’s an unorthodox move from the Mets in a league increasingly leaning toward platoons and utility infielders, but Puckerman, who has only 40 major league at-bats under his belt, is used to breaking molds.
The Miami native, who made headlines last summer when he became only the fourth openly gay player to step into the batter’s box at the major league level, is also one of only five current Jewish major leaguers, and the only one in the National League.
“I figure they looked at me and thought, ‘well, here’s this gay Jewish kid no one knows what to think of, so let’s just give him a shot at this,’” he says, and quickly waves his hands to show he’s kidding. “Seriously. I’m so grateful. Make sure you say that. Grateful.”
Puckerman is at times both effusive and wry, with a reputation for good-natured, smart teasing that’s followed him from his All-American days at Miami-Dade High School, where he posted a state-best .445 batting average and set a school record with 16 homers his junior year. He has a habit of moving almost constantly when he’s talking, and when I mention his unique role in baseball history, he pulls the neck of his workout shirt down, showing off the gold Star of David and rainbow hemp necklaces he wears under his jersey every game.
“Pride gets kind of a bad rap,” he explains. “But being proud of what makes you special is important, especially if it makes you part of a community. It’s how we find our place in life.”
Puckerman’s place right now is historic, but the fifth-round draft pick has had a lot to be proud of for a long time. While at the University of Miami, Puckerman was a first-team All American his final three years, and won All-Conference Player of the Year his senior year, leading the ACC in batting average, home runs, RBI, and runs scored. Puckerman’s steady play on both sides of the ball has continued at the big league level: he was a Futures Game pick in 2017 and, most recently with AAA Las Vegas, was the Pacific Coast batting champion after hitting .346, despite taking the big league shuttle to Queens on three separate occasions.
Puckerman’s ascension through the system is of no surprise to anyone who’s followed his career for very long, but on his first day of spring training as a newly minted big leaguer, he’s not worried about looking like he’s been here before.
“Did you see Carlos Beltran? Carlos Beltran is here.” He leans over the dugout railing as far as he can and then sits back down on the bench. “Man, how great is baseball?”
Big league spring training shouldn’t feel that different from the minor league beat, Finn tries to tell himself, but there’s no denying that everything about it is brand new. He pulls his press pass over his head and grins down at his upside-down face smiling back. Part of Finn had thought that everyone would congratulate him on his first big-league spring training, but security just nods at his pass and waves him through.
The press box is like everything else at Tradition Field--bigger and shinier than anything Finn’s worked with before. He sets up his laptop in the back row, where he figures he won’t accidentally be taking Kristie Ackert’s seat or something. He pockets an extra old-school recorder and one of the mini notebooks he’d started carrying around as a habit covering college ballgames. His editor had told him to check in with the media relations director to schedule some features they’d tentatively lined up, so Finn heads in the direction of the clubhouse. He manages to wander into a bathroom and a really hot laundry room before he runs right into a crush of people standing in clumps, all holding out recorders.
“Finn Hudson?” A short-haired woman with blue earrings that look like birds steps out past the crowd. She’s smiling as she walks up to him, and Finn can feel himself exhale. “Leslie Williams. Matt said you were taking over the beat.”
“Yeah! I mean, yes. That’s me. I’m Finn.” He shakes Leslie’s offered hand. “Looking forward to working with you.”
“Well, anything you need, Finn, don’t hesitate to ask,” she says, and Finn can tell right away that she means it. “Matt emailed me a list of features MLB.com is looking to cover before camp breaks. I can tell you which players might be easier to talk to now rather than week five, but did you or your editors have a preference?”
Finn pulls up his own email from Matt and scans it as quickly as he can. “I think he really wanted something on Puck--Noah Puckerman, if we can swing that?” Finn knows he probably sounds as new as he feels, but if Leslie agrees, she isn’t letting on.
“We can absolutely get you Puckerman. What a story, huh?” She gestures for Finn to follow her, and she takes him up through the tunnel and into the dugout. The catchers are just coming back from drills, shedding their gear as they jog down the steps. Finn sidesteps a tossed shin guard, but he must lunge too far, because he ends up having to do a little spin move to keep from falling. To his right, he hears someone burst out laughing.
“Better call Juilliard!” Finn spins back around. He’s seen more than his share of interviews and highlights to know exactly who’s standing next to him, doubled over and wiping his eyes. “I’m kidding! I promise!” he holds out his hand to Finn. “That was just so smooth, man. Puck.”
“Finn,” Finn says, and he’s sure he’s bright red. “You like that one? You should see me do ‘Single Ladies.’” He freezes, sure he should just get his jaw wired shut forever so he’ll stop saying words, but Puck grins really big, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Definitely show me that sometime.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s a masterpiece.” Finn sits on the dugout bench and pulls out his recorder. “Oh! Oh, uh, I’m from MLB.com. We’re doing-- can we talk for a couple minutes?”
“I know who you are.” Puck lifts one eyebrow at Finn, and he looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Sure, yeah. Let’s do it.” He sits next to Finn, close enough so Finn has to angle himself to the side just to hold out his recorder. “You want to start with the gay thing, the Jewish thing, or the ‘holy shit, I’m starting at third base thing?’”
Finn puts a hand over his mouth to hold in the bark of laughter that wants to come out, but he’s only about half successful. Puck’s leaning against the back wall of the dugout with his hands behind his head now, looking really proud of himself for Finn’s reaction.
“Let’s start with the last one and work backward?” Finn tries to match Puck’s pleased and challenging face, but he’s pretty sure he just looks vaguely constipated. Puck’s nod looks pretty enthusiastic though, so Finn keeps going. “But we’re definitely going to talk about how you know what Juilliard is,” he says, clicking his recorder on.
“No, I swear we eat other things! I don’t even like tuna noodle!”
“Lying is a very unattractive trait, Finn Hudson,” Puck tsks, poking Finn’s arm with each word. “Do you put those cornflake crumbs on top, too?”
“Yes--I mean, no! I mean, my mom does, but I don’t eat it. Puuuuck.” Finn knows he’s whining now, and it just makes Puck smirk. Finn’s lost track of time, but he put his recorder away a while ago, and he’s pretty sure the clubbies have already been through the dugout with brooms and trash bags. “Fine. What do you eat when you’re home?”
“Hmmm,” Puck lolls his head back so his cap tips backward, and he looks at Finn out of the corner of his eye. “My Ma makes the best latkes you’ve ever had. You have to try them sometime,” he says, gesturing to Finn like it’s a given that Finn will go to Puck’s mom’s house in Miami for latkes. “My sister likes to make homemade lasagna with me. We run the dough through the machine and everything. We’ve been doing it since she was little and couldn’t even turn the handle.” Puck flips his cap off his head lazily and leans closer to Finn. “But the first thing I do when I go home is head right to Little Havana and get myself some platanos.”
Puck says the last word in perfectly accented Spanish, low and right in Finn’s ear. Puck’s way closer to Finn than Finn had realized, and he can feel his ear heat up. If Puck notices, he doesn’t say. He just chuckles and runs a hand over his mohawk.
“Shit!” Finn finally looks at his phone. “I’ve gotta file this by midnight, so I should…” He’s trying not to look as disappointed as he feels, but he quickly realizes he doesn’t have to worry about that, because Puck’s openly frowning, his brow furrowed. “My laptop’s still up in the press box,” Finn tries weakly as an explanation.
“Ah, yeah, I should probably grab dinner, myself.” Puck stands slowly, and he looks kind of sheepish when he glances over at Finn. “Don’t tell my agent or Willie, but I’m going to happen to pass by that burger and shake place on the boulevard.”
“Hmm? What? I didn’t hear anything.” Finn widens his eyes and tries to look innocent. “Unless you said ‘salad and grilled chicken.’ Then I definitely heard it.” He claps Puck on the back, leaving his hand there probably longer than is strictly necessary, letting his fingers press into the muscle for a fraction of a second. “Tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” Puck groans, making a face. “That’s off the record, by the way. If anyone asks, I’m just enjoying every minute of this.”
“I’ll make a note.”
It’s just after 10:30 when Finn closes his laptop in his hotel room and runs a hand over his eyes. He can’t remember the last time a story flowed so easily, even if he had butterflies in his stomach the entire time he was writing it. It wasn’t the writing part, he admits to himself, and shuffles to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
Nothing about the interview and everything afterward had been particularly jarring for Finn--not the guy part or the way they clicked or the shivers Finn can still feel when he thinks about Puck’s voice in his ear. No one’s been off the table for Finn, strictly speaking, since he was in college, but he doesn’t and won’t count a few bad dates and one disastrous blowjob as extensive guy-experience. Still, realizing he’s attracted to Puck isn’t weird or surprising at all, even if Finn’s job is the absolute last place he’d assumed he’d meet a guy he was into.
Finn’s still staring at himself in the bathroom mirror and contemplating the amusing trajectory of the last 12 hours of his life when he hears his text alert go off in the bedroom, three chimes in a row.
Is it too late to add some stuff to my quotes? I thought of more things in the shower
Shit it’s probably too late and also now you know what I think about in the shower
Want to get a beer either way? I’m not tired I think those wind sprints made me wired
The butterflies are back in full force. Finn puts a hand over his stomach while he texts back.
Not technically too late but you might like the story the way it is. Promise I didn’t quote you about early morning workouts or burgers
So you think about me and baseball in the shower? Doesn’t everyone? Finn knows he’s bright red again, but he sends the last text anyway.
Definitely. Never say no to that. Heard some of the writers talk about Duffy’s meet me there in half an hour?
Finn pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor. He finds a clean, mostly wrinkle-free button-down in his suitcase and pulls it on with his jeans. The text alert chimes again while he’s stuffing his wallet in his back pocket.
Be there with bells on
Despite the head start Finn thought he had, Puck’s already at Duffy’s and sitting at a back table when Finn gets there. He nods to a bottle of Landshark sitting open on a coaster next to Puck’s seat and nudges a plate of what looks like loaded potato skins toward the beer.
“Almost everything else has fish in it, which I love, but I didn’t know if your love of fish went past tuna noodle, so I played it safe.” The lighting is low, but Finn can still see Puck wink at him. Finn sits down quickly.
“I’m emailing my editor and having him add ‘comedian’ to your description,” Finn grumbles, but he knows it has no bite.
“Aw, c’mon, are you trying to make me less special?” Puck takes a bite of his potato skin, chewing while he glares appraisingly at Finn. “All the best comedians are already gay or Jewish or both.”
“I’m a career-killer, Puckerman. I should’ve mentioned that earlier.” Finn grins at Puck, feeling happier all at once than he has in a long time.
Puck raises that one eyebrow again. “Mention some more things then.”
“What?” Finn finally takes a potato skin before Puck nudges the plate right off the table, but he blinks at Puck while he eats it. “Like what?”
“You know,” Puck shrugs. “Sometimes we don’t get to say the things we want to say the first time.”
Finn washes down the last bite of his potato with more gulps of his beer than he needed. He’s not 100-percent sure what Puck’s asking, and if he’s wrong, he could ruin way more than just a late-night drink.
“I can go first,” Puck continues as Finn’s finishing his gulps of beer. “It’s embarrassing as hell, but whatever.” Finn nods, not sure what other response Puck is looking for, but it must be enough. “I was pretty damn disappointed when I realized you wanted to talk to me today for your article and not, you know,” Puck waves his right hand through the air. “Because you were interested. Which is stupid, because why else would you have been there? But.”
Finn watches Puck for a few seconds. His eyes keep casting to one side, and clipped-short nails Finn recognizes from every player he’s ever worked with are pulling at his Landshark label. It’s a side of Puck Finn hadn’t seen in the dugout, and it makes Finn feel strangely calm. He straightens in his seat a little and looks Puck right in the eye.
“And what about now? Are you still disappointed?”
Puck stops fidgeting and looks back. Finn thinks he sees Puck shake his head, just a little bit, but before he can decide for sure, Puck’s leaning in and kissing him, his lips pressed to Finn’s with a kind of confidence that reminds Finn of the way Puck’s voice sounded in his ear. When Puck pulls away, Finn’s sure he looks a little bit wild, but he returns the bitten-lip grin Puck is giving him and sits back in his chair, draining the rest of his beer.
Puckerman, Alaimo continue to struggle as Opening Day approaches
By Finn Hudson/MLB.com @FinnHudson
Port St. Lucie, Florida
The sun was brilliant at Tradition Field Tuesday afternoon. The same couldn’t be said about the Mets’ bats, as New York fell to Minnesota, 8-0, on the teams’ last matinee of the spring.
New York managed just three hits against Twins ace Phil Hughes and a sharp bullpen. Antonio Phillips, going 2-3 with a double, was the lone offensive standout for the Mets. Noah Puckerman continued his cold spring, going 0-4 with three strikeouts and a fielding error that contributed to four unearned runs for a deceptively solid Harvey (2-1, 2.45) in the Twins breakout six-run fourth. Puckerman, hitting just .198 this spring, is already raising questions about his upcoming debut as the Mets’ opening day third baseman.
“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t frustrating. Obviously,you want to play your best when you get a chance to prove yourself, and I know I’m not playing my best right now. But I feel good, and I’m healthy, and I’m confident I’ll be able to contribute at the level these great fans expect.”
For the organization's part, there seems to be no hint of moving Puckerman out of the lineup. Veteran Raul Ordonez could spell Puckerman at third base when camp breaks, but the 36-year-old hasn't seen regular major league action since 2016, when he hit .235 in 504 at-bats with the Mariners. The Mets have no other corner infielders on their 40-man roster, so any other move from AAA-Las Vegas would require a DFA or trade, something the Mets seem unwilling to do this late in the spring. Where manager Willie Randolph is concerned, Puckerman's spring struggles are a non-issue.
"We said in January that Puckerman's our guy, and we meant it. Every young player has some growing pains. We'd rather see a talented player like Puckerman work out the kinks in March than in July, but we're standing by him no matter what. When we head back to Citi Field, Noah Puckerman will be at third base."
If the Mets are looking for precedent, they need look no further than their last third baseman. David Wright put up poor numbers in his first full spring training in 2004, hitting just .214 over 105 at-bats with two home runs. Traditionally, spring training performances haven't correlated with regular-season numbers, but players say they can affect confidence heading into the season.
"You try not to think too much about it," Puckerman says. "You want to make a clean slate in April. But you're only human, and it can feel like it lingers. I think my regular seasons have spoken for themselves, though, so I'm confident I can bring that same consistent play to New York."
…
The thing no one told Puck about spring training when you’re guaranteed a roster spot is how much more nerve-wracking it feels. Being a camp invitee had felt kind of like showing off for recruiters and scouts--something Puck had always loved. A couple long power swings, some contact bat work, and solid leather, and Puck could feel confident that his hard work was being seen by the people deciding his future. But with the audition over, all Puck can feel is expectation.
By the last week of camp, Puck still hasn’t broken .200, and the hitless at-bats are starting to keep him up at night. He’s talked to his hitting coach, who told him to “trust the process.” He’s talked to Carlos Beltran, who suggested he shorten his swing and then laughed at Puck for calling him “Carlos Beltran” five times. He even talked to the sports psychologist woman who came around the week before and who gave him a folder full of techniques Puck’s sure would work really well on someone who is not Puck and who is not a massive baseball fuck-up about to let everyone down.
The last Friday before they head north, Finn swings by Puck’s hotel so they can go out to dinner. Finn has been the one bright spot of Puck’s spring so far, so of course Puck’s aggressively avoiding thinking about how little time they have left together. Puck stops at the full-length mirror one last time before he leaves, craning his neck to check out his own ass. Satisfied his pants are tight enough to make Finn blush at least once when Puck bends over, he heads down to the lobby.
Puck’s not sure how long Finn’s been sitting in front of the Hampton Inn when Puck finally walks outside, but he doesn’t even look mildly put-out, grinning when he sees Puck.
“Ruffino’s?” Puck says by way of a greeting when he slides into the passenger’s seat. Finn’s wearing the blue shirt Puck had commented on when they went mini-golfing week two, and Puck takes a second to give him a good once-over. Finn’s cheeks are already tinted pink by the time Puck finishes, so Puck lets himself indulge in a nice self-satisfied smirk.
“Nah,” Finn says when he recovers. “I had another idea. You’ll see.”
Puck looks askance at Finn when they pull into the Holiday Inn Express parking lot, but Finn just grins again and comes around to Puck’s side of the car to open the door for him.
“Hi by the way,” he says, leaning in to kiss Puck before tugging on his hand. “This is going to be the fanciest date ever.”
“Fancier than when we tried to edit the Ross Perot wiki page for two hours?” Puck bumps Finn’s hip.
“I still say it was worth the one-week ban. We don’t know that he wasn’t a studio musician for the Backstreet Boys.” Finn leads Puck to the front desk, where he hands the clerk a note and a few bills Puck can’t make out. “Your chariot,” he says, gesturing to the elevator bay.
Puck rolls his eyes with a grin but pulls closer to Finn when they’re on the elevator alone. There are about a thousand things he both wants to say and thinks he should say, but he just sags against Finn’s side instead. Finn curls his arm around Puck and keeps it there when the doors open. Puck follows Finn to his room, still mostly pressed against him.
When they walk into the room, Puck feels himself start to relax almost immediately. Finn’s piled every pillow in the room onto the far bed, with the gross comforter off and out of sight. The table’s pulled to the foot of the bed, and Finn’s laptop is open on it. Puck hides a smile at what looks like folded sweats next to the computer, but Finn notices anyway.
“If you, you know…” Puck looks at him expectantly, waiting for the blush to darken. “You might want to be more comfortable. At some point.”
“I like options,” Puck says casually. “Options are good. Healthy.”
“Yep, they sure are.” Finn glances at the door. “You can sit on the Bed of Pillows. I’ll be right back.”
“Cool,” Puck says, mostly to himself since Finn’s already walking out the door. He eyes the sweats, but ultimately decides that Finn still owes him a good ass-stare, so he just takes his shoes off and settles back onto the right side of the bed, sighing loudly as he sinks back into the pillows. He has a brief awareness that he hasn’t thought about baseball since he saw Finn, and he makes himself push the thought out of his head.
Puck would swear later that he doesn’t fall asleep while Finn’s out of the room, but he doesn’t have any actual recollection of hearing Finn come back in or put the burger and fries next to Puck’s side of the bed.
“Five-star cuisine, my good sir,” Finn says in the cheesiest French accent Puck’s ever heard. Shit, he likes this guy so fucking much. “As accompaniment, we have a milkshake in a nice 2019 chocolate varietal.”
“Dork,” Puck snorts, but he takes the milkshake from Finn eagerly. “‘Varietal,’ huh?”
Finn grins, and it looks sheepish. “I dated this girl in grad school for about three weeks who took me to this wine institute thing for a weekend. You like that?”
“Be still, my heart.” Puck mock-fans himself. Finn makes a clicking noise at Puck and falls onto the other side of the bed, still holding his burger.
“But wait! There’s more!” Finn wakes up his computer and presses play on the DVD home screen.
“Fuck yes.” Puck takes a big bite of his burger--done medium, and he can’t remember ever actually telling Finn that’s how he liked it--and settles back to watch Cap and Bucky find each other again.
Puck’s seen The Winter Soldier about 30 times, so he’s not exactly disappointed when they miss the last 45 minutes. Finn’s on top of him, long and solid, his thigh heavy between Puck’s legs and his hips rocking with every movement of his mouth against Puck’s.
“Yeah,” Puck gasps out when Finn pulls his mouth away to press kisses to Puck’s neck. “This. All of this.” He can feel Finn nod and hum a little against his neck, and then Finn’s hands are sliding under Puck’s shirt, his fingers dragging along Puck’s ribs and back down to his waistband. Puck can feel a little whimper starting in his throat, but he swallows it down and tries to wiggle even closer to Finn’s hands.
“This, too?” Finn lifts his head to look at Puck, his hands still on Puck’s fly.
“Fuck. Please.” Things feel like they’re spinning, fast, but Finn’s hands are the best anchor. He pops Puck’s fly open and starts peeling Puck’s jeans down and off, his big hands leaving little goosebumps everywhere he touches, even though it’s plenty warm in the room. He pulls his own shirt over his head, so by the time Finn’s kissing his way back up Puck’s thigh, Puck’s completely naked and spread out.
“You’re beautiful.” It’s so low Puck can barely make it out, but Finn’s eyes are shining. “Can I see more?”
“Finn,” Puck starts, but then he nods. “Help me show you.”
Finn’s mouth is impossibly hot when it slides down Puck’s cock in one smooth motion, his tongue pressed tight along the underside. Puck can’t take his eyes off the way Finn’s lips are stretched snug around him, Puck’s cock coming away slick when Finn moves his mouth on each upslide. Puck reminds himself not to thrust down Finn’s throat as Finn’s motions get faster and sloppier, but then he realizes he couldn’t if he wanted to--not with Finn’s hands curled around his hips and holding tight.
“Shit. It’s good. It’s so so--Finn.” It’s supposed to be a warning, because Puck is closer faster than he can ever remember being ever in his whole life, even when he was in high school and a strong breeze got him going. Instead, Puck can hear how pleading it is, and he’s not even sure what he’s pleading for.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter, because he can see and feel Finn nod, just slightly, and then Finn’s hands are off his hips and his nails are dragging down Puck’s stomach in a sharp shock of pleasure and pain that shoots right between Puck’s legs. Puck couldn’t stop his hips this time, not even if he wanted to, and he thrusts up hard, coming down Finn’s throat. He can feel Finn swallowing, even after Puck’s sure there must be nothing left, and then Finn eases Puck gently out of his mouth and rests his head on Puck’s thigh.
“Thank you,” Puck says, softer than he intended, and he runs his fingers through Finn’s hair. Finn’s breathing heavy, and Puck sees him lick his lips before he answers. It’s as rough as Puck expected.
“You showed me,” Finn says, sounding awed. He lifts his hand like he’s going to reach out for the marks Puck can see blooming on his stomach, but then he stops and strokes Puck’s hipbone. “You showed me.”
When Puck wakes up the first time, there’s a dull throb across his stomach and a face buried in the back of his neck. He grins to himself and stretches his limbs as best he can with Finn sprawled against him, thankful for the off day tomorrow. Finn never did check out his ass, he snorts to himself, and then frowns. Puck has two more games and four days total before they head north, and he and Finn still haven’t talked about whether they’ll continue this whatever-it-is thing when the season starts. Truth be told, Puck’s not entirely sure Finn’s heading north with them. They don’t talk about work on dates, not explicitly anyway, and they’ve been doing this for too long now for Puck to ask what Finn’s job will mean in April.
Finn huffs out a breath against Puck’s neck, and Puck forces himself to relax back into Finn’s hold. Whatever they are or whatever they aren’t, they still have four days together before Puck heads into the New York pressure cooker. For now, that’s enough for Puck. It has to be.
“Are you fucking kidding me? What did that fucking clubbie do with my wristbands?” Christiansen growls from the locker next to Puck’s. “Useless fucking-- this is why they make minimum wage.”
“Dude,” someone--maybe Jones, but Puck’s not turning that obviously to check--says, and Puck hears a dull ‘thump.’ “Your damn wristbands were right on the chair where you left them, Alex, Jesus.”
“Fucking clubbies,” Christiansen mutters again, and chucks the wristbands into the top shelf of his locker. Puck turns away, rolling his eyes, and it must’ve been Jones for sure, because he’s standing on Puck’s other side, shaking his head.
“Every homestand,” he says to Puck under his breath. Puck makes a face back before turning to his phone for the thousandth time already that day. He and Finn never did have their conversation, and now he has no idea what city Finn’s even in. He unlocks his screen and cycles through social media before tossing his phone back into his bag with a sigh.
“Thought baseball was supposed to be fun.”
Puck jumps, spinning around. Finn’s standing about six inches away, looking like he always does, wearing his press pass like he always does, and carrying his little notebook like he always does. He’s grinning hugely at Puck, his nose crinkled. “Now who’s getting into Juilliard?”
Puck shoves Finn’s shoulder, probably a little harder than necessary, and remembers to look around right before he almost leans in. “Two-for-one tuition?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Finn says, pulling his recorder out of his pocket. “I have to hit up Willie’s presser, but your place or mine tonight?”
Puck must look as startled as he feels, because Finn quickly stammers. “Oh, shit, I mean. Did you not-- I know we didn’t talk about-- shit, I’m an idiot.” Finn’s really red now, but it’s not the blush Puck likes. He shakes his head as quickly as he can while Finn’s still talking, and he leans in so Christiansen can’t hear.
“No, believe me, no. That’s fine. More than fine. I just wasn’t, ah, I didn’t actually know you were going to be here?” Puck offers, and he knows it’s not an explanation that makes any sense, now that he’s listening to himself say it. “I was hoping, but.” He runs a hand over his mohawk and chuckles. “Can we go back to the part where I’m smooth as fuck and kiss you over potato skins?”
“And miss out on the Ross Perot stuff? Nah.” Finn’s smile is easy, and Puck relaxes again. “My new apartment’s basically a mattress on the floor and this futon I scored from some guy in Queens that I’m 90-percent sure came with a family of mice. But!” Finn continues when Puck raises his eyebrows. “There’s a diner down my block that’ll make you an omelette with anything you want in it. Even jelly, because I totally asked. And I promise, if you stick with me, in 7-to-10 business days I’ll have actual furniture, and then, oh boy, is it going to get wild after that.”
Puck’s laughing so hard he almost forgets to tell Finn that yes, jelly omelettes and mice futons sound like the best thing ever. He eventually nods, though, and Finn heads off to the presser with a salute and a promise to drive Puck to Westchester if he doesn’t mind hanging around the press box after the game.
Puck turns back to his locker and grins into it, tuning out Christiansen’s bellows about his pre-game protein shake. This major league thing might just work out, after all.
Mets take two out of three from Nats, move to 21-6 in May
By Finn Hudson/MLB.com @FinnHudson
Queens, New York
The Mets relied on a combination of timely hitting and their fifth-straight quality start to edge the Nationals, 6-5, Thursday night, and move into sole possession of first place in the National League East.
By defeating Washington, the Mets have won 3 our of 4, 10 out of 12, and 21 of their games in May. They’ve erased their slow April start, in part because of contributions from Matt Harvey, who allowed three runs on eight hits Thursday, good enough for the win and 6-1 on the season, and a resurgent Noah Puckerman, who seems to be hitting his stride after a shaky first six weeks. Over the last 20 games, Puckerman is hitting .340, with four home runs and 15 RBI.
“We’re all sharing the load,” Puckerman said, explaining the team’s recent success. “Every night, a different guy’s a hero. It gets you excited about what you can do for your team and it makes you want to win for yourself and the rest of the team. These guys are working so hard.”
…
“Yes he was!”
“What? No he wasn’t!”
“Yes. Yes he was. Hamilton was totally bi. They found letters, Finn.”
“That doesn’t mean anything! That’s just how dudes talked to each other back then!”
“He said he loved him the way he loved his wife.”
“Okay, but maybe he bro-loved his wife, though. Maybe it was, like, an insult to Eliza instead.”
“Bro-loved his-- listen to yourself!”
They seem to both realize at the same time that the entire press box has gone silent. Puck peers around Finn to see half the beat writers, as well as Leslie and some of the FOX crew, staring at them. Leslie at least has her hand over her smile, but some of the writers are openly laughing.
“Go home, Hudson,” someone from the News--or maybe the Post, Finn still hasn’t figured it out--finally calls out, waving his hand.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Finn calls back and slings an arm over Puck’s shoulders. “Bring me my $10 tomorrow, though!”
They’re heading up the ramp in the parking garage when Puck clears his throat. “So that was kind of weird.”
“Hmm? Nah, Mikey bet me that AP guy wouldn’t finish his entire tuna sub before the third inning. The whole thing was gone by the anthem. Chips and all.” Finn smiles proudly and links his fingers with Puck’s.
“Not that, but remind me not to get to close to him. The other writers seem either really cool with us or really dense not to figure us out.” Puck squeezes Finn’s hand.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s the former.” Finn shrugs. “There’s like this weird understanding that they won’t say anything, though. Which is awesome, because I like when you visit me at work.”
Puck laughs, and Finn can see that he’s rolling his right wrist where he took a line drive in the fifth inning. “I hope so. I do it every game. But seriously, it’s cool?”
“Yep.” Finn turns down Grand Central Parkway. “It’s not like we’re making out on top of the computers or anything. Besides, your teammates don’t say anything either, right?”
Finn’s never actually asked Puck what his teammates do and don’t say about their relationship. Over the past two months, they’ve fallen into a pattern of switching off apartments every few nights during homestands and driving into the ballpark together. It usually means that Finn gets to work earlier than necessary, but it also means that now he gets the good seat in the MLB.com row every day. Puck’s taken to meeting Finn in the press box after games so they can leave together, rather than hanging out in the clubhouse, but if no one’s complaining, Finn doesn’t see any reason to stop. He knows, and he’s pretty sure Puck knows, that it’s a lot of time together really fast, but all of it feels right and awesome, and neither of them are making any move to slow down.
“Sometimes Christiansen looks at me funny, but you know how he is.” Puck makes a face. “And a couple of the relievers--Kyle and Scott, y’know?--made a comment a couple days ago about how it must be nice to have my own personal ‘roving reporter.’ It sounded pretty mild, though, and I think one of them wasn’t sure what that meant. So, nah, not really.”
Finn turns down Puck’s street, speeding up when he sees an empty spot. “Have I mentioned how much I love your apartment?”
Puck snorts. “You just like not having to wait for the post-game celebrations.”
“Harder. Fuck, Finn, please”
Finn looks down at Puck, who’s arching as far as he can to push himself back harder onto Finn’s cock. It wasn’t Finn’s intention to draw this out for Puck, but now Puck’s begging for it and he’s spread his legs so far that Finn can just watch Puck fuck himself backward, his hole eagerly gripping at Finn’s cock on every thrust forward.
“What do you want?” Finn holds Puck’s hips loosely so he doesn’t tip to the side from his desperate attempts.
“Fuck me hard. Harder. I need--”
“What do you need, Puck?” Finn rubs soothing circles along the top of Puck’s ass, letting his fingers just graze where his cock is still sliding in and out of Puck.
“Need to feel. Finn, please!”
Finn doesn’t answer. He just gives Puck’s ass one more gentle squeeze and then grips Puck’s hips tightly, driving into him as hard as he can. It’s their routine, now, after an error or a hitless game, and tonight Puck’s had both.
Finn fucks into Puck on a particularly hard thrust, angling his hips so Puck has to grip the headboard to stay upright. The resulting sobbing moan that’s wrenched out of Puck is so deeply satisfying to hear that Finn almost loses it right there. But he knows Puck’s not done yet.
The haven’t done this in weeks; Puck’s been nearly perfect through May. But Finn hasn’t forgotten how much Puck needs this. He keeps fucking Puck as hard as he can, pulling out sobs and moans until Puck’s quietly whimpering and gasping and his Finn can tell that he’s just about ready. He grits his teeth and wills himself not to come until he can give Puck the last thing he knows Puck needs.
“Show me.”
He drags his nails down Puck’s back as hard as he can, watching the smooth skin under them break in pretty long lines he knows’ll last for a few days. Puck howls and comes, untouched, and that sound and the sight of Puck’s back and the grip around Finn’s cock means he only lasts a few more thrusts, riding out Puck’s orgasm with him as he comes deep inside him.
Puck passes out briefly, like he always does on nights like this, and Finn cleans him carefully. Then he tucks a blanket around Puck’s hips and strokes his hair until he comes to, like he always does, grinning sweetly at Finn before fluttering his eyelids back closed.
“It’s a long season,” Finn says softly, his fingers still running through Puck’s mohawk. “I love you.”
Puck makes a contented-sounding “mmmm” noise and reaches out to curl his fingers around Finn’s wrist. Finn stays awake until Puck’s breathing is deep and even, and then lets himself drift off, his fingers still stroking Puck’s hair.
Quartet of Mets selected to All-Star Game
By Finn Hudson/MLB.com @FinnHudson
Queens, New York
The defending National League will have a healthy dose of New York representation when the best of the best descend on Chicago for the Midsummer Classic on July 8th. Mets shortstop Marquis Jones and centerfielder Antonio Phillips finished first at their positions in the fan vote, while pitchers Matt Harvey and closer Feliz Gonzalez were selected as reserves by National League manager Brandon Inge.
2019 has been somewhat of a breakout year for Jones, who’s rounding out the first half batting .294 with 56 RBI and 15 HR. He’ll be making his first All-Star appearance. Phillips, who was also selected in 2018 and went 0-1 in the rain-shorted National League victory, has already surpassed his 2018 first-half production numbers, with 48 RBI and 18HR. Phillips ranks 2nd among National League outfielders in home runs.
Once-perennial starter Matt Harvey is making a bid for Comeback Player of the Year. Harvey’s 18 months out from his second Tommy John surgery, but he’s already rewarding the Mets for their faith in him. The Connecticut native is pitching to the tune of a 9-2 record and a sparkling 2.89 ERA. Harvey ranks 8th in the NL in total strikeouts.
Closer Feliz Gonzalez is also making his Midsummer debut. The second-year lefty, closing in place of 2018 Cy Young runner-up Brett Hunter, leads the league in saves with 23. Gonzalez should see some action on July 8th, as Inge has already promised to use as many players as possible.
Just falling short of making the team is third-baseman Noah Puckerman, whose .286 average and .880 OPS rank first among NL rookies. There had been some buzz that the Rookie of the Year candidate, who finished third in third base voting, might be on Inge’s short list for infield reserves, but the Miami native lost out to San Francisco’s Kelly Gorman, who’s leading the league in on-base percentage (.415) and stolen bases (20).
…
Puck can’t remember the last time he’s had such a good stretch of play. He knocks on the top of his locker every time he thinks about it, but there’s no way he can deny it, not the way the bat feels going through the zone, or the way the ball seems to find his glove effortlessly.
He’s sure he’ll come down from this, positive he’ll soon be trying every trick in the book to get his swing back, but for now, he’s walking on air. A mid-week day game means he and Finn didn’t get to sleep in, but they did grab a big breakfast at Finn’s omelette diner before taking the long way to the ballpark so they could make out a little in Wilsons Woods Park first. Even with the stops, Puck gets to Citi Field before most of his teammates, so he takes his time at his locker before wandering into the clubhouse for a snack.
“Just who I was looking for.”
Puck stops with an apple slice halfway to his mouth. Willie’s standing in the doorway to the players’ lounge, frowning at Puck.
“Sir?”
“Come have a chat with me, Puckerman.”
The walk to Willie’s office feels longer than a home run trot, even though Puck knows it’s right next to the lounge. Puck sits across from Willie in the relatively cramped manager’s office, still ridiculously clutching his apple slice, and tries to look innocent of whatever it is Willie’s going to say.
“I can’t say this is a conversation I’ve ever had,” Willie starts, and then looks at Puck like maybe he wants Puck to fill in the blanks. Puck shakes his head. “First of all, I gotta tell ya you’re looking like a bonafide ballplayer out there. We’re all extremely pleased with your on-field performance.”
Puck smiles faintly and nods, because he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be sitting here if he was getting some kind of hitting award.
“There have been, however,” Willie continues, “some concerns brought to my attention about your relationship with a member of the media.”
Puck tries not to smile or nod or do anything else that might confirm whatever it is Willie thinks is bad about him and Finn. And besides occasionally throwing a few bucks into the tuna sub pool, Puck honestly can’t think of any rule he’d broken. “Oh?”
“Some of your teammates feel as though you might be getting exposure that’s not, hmmm,” Willie flips a page in a notepad on his desk. “In proportion to your contributions.” He winces when he says that, and Puck can feel his hands clenching into fists.
“Sir, I’m not denying a relationship, but I don’t think I’ve ever been asked for a quote after a game I didn’t do something news...worthy.” Puck waves his hand around and wrinkles his nose, because talking about himself that way feels weird. Willie sighs.
“That may be true, Puckerman, but sometimes when something looks bad, it’s hard to convince people it isn’t bad. Do you hear me?” Puck tries not to glare, but he’s pretty sure he’s not successful. “When you’re at the park late and you leave with the press…” he raises an eyebrow like he wants Puck to finish the sentence.
“I take extra swings in the cage while I’m waiting for Finn!” Puck spits out, and then covers his mouth, because even if Willie knew exactly who Puck was involved with, saying it out loud still feels incriminating.
“I can’t tell you to stop doing that,” Willie says wrly, and he almost looks like he wants to smile. “Look, just be more discreet, okay? I don’t want to see you back in here until award season.” Puck raises an eyebrow, and Willie chuckles. “Here’s the thing, kid: if I have a rookie making league minimum and a veteran with a no-trade clause, who do you think has more leverage with the brass?”
Christiansen
“Now get outta here.”
Puck manages a smile and nod for Willie, and stalks back to the locker room, taking the few steps to plan all the ways he can inflict maximum torture on Alex fucking Christiansen without ending up in prison. The asshole still isn’t in the locker room when Puck gets back, so Puck pulls out his phone to text Finn, instead.
Jesus fuck Puck I just got an email from my boss. They want to take me off the beat! >:( >:( >:(
The fuck? Puck’s pretty sure Christiansen doesn’t have the pull at MLB.com that he has with the Wilpons.
u too?! Willie just sat me down and told me to be more careful being seen with you. Fuckface complained
Puck finishes pulling on his uniform while he waits for Finn’s next text. Prison, he decides, might actually be worth seeing the look on Christiansen’s face when…
fuck him! I mean not like that. Ewwwww please don’t do that. Just idk shove a hot poker up his nostril
neither of us have fireplaces Finn. and i thought of a bat but I think that’s too obvious. crowbar?
It’s still only 10:15, so Puck heads into the trainer’s room and stretches across an exercise ball. It’s as good a hiding place as any, he figures, as he waves to the assistant trainer.
is that what pokers are for? Huh i did’t know that. Crowbars are too Home Alone. Shit he says to call him. Wish me luck
“Fuck!”
The trainer glances over at him, but otherwise she doesn’t move from where she’s been typing at her computer. Puck scowls down at his phone. It’s late enough to have field access now, so he jogs straight to the field, not even peeking into the locker room on his way. He shoves his phone in his back pocket, on vibrate, and tries not to think about anything while he bends into a hamstring stretch. The not-thinking thing doesn’t work, unless by “not thinking,” Puck was actually supposed to be brainstorming more long metal things to poke Christiansen in the eye with, but he’s still about three-quarters done with his stretches when Finn calls.
“So fucking get this,” Finn starts as soon as Puck accepts the call. “Some anon asshole complained to my boss and said that I use you to get access to stories no one else can cover.”
“Uh, what? What stories? The big bad world of Phillips’s ab workout?”
“That’s what I said!” Puck holds the phone away from his ear. “I stayed on the phone while he looked through all my filed stories, and I asked him to tell me where the hell I wrote about anything I couldn’t have learned from the players I interviewed.. I didn’t say ‘hell’ though. And I asked kind of nicely. But I’m pissed, Puck!”
“What did he say?” Puck doesn’t feel like going back inside, especially not now, so he sits in the corner of the dugout, ready to glare at anyone who comes up the tunnel.
“He had to admit he couldn’t find anything! He didn’t apologize, but he said ‘maybe there was a miscommunication, Hudson. Be more careful in the future.’ Whatever that means.”
Puck snorts. “That means he wanted to catch you doing something wrong, and couldn’t. Asshole.”
“He is an asshole. And!” Puck can practically see Finn punching the air with his finger. “I bet I know who the “anon” source it. His nephew Bennett or Blake or Bryce or something douchey is the backup float writer for the Mets. If I got fired, he’d probably get the beat.”
“Jesus,” Puck spits.
“Yeah. We need two crowbars. Okay, so what do we do now? Are we supposed to, like, fake-breakup or something to throw everyone off the scent?”
“Dude.” Puck shakes his head. “Then it’ll be like a bad sitcom where we really have to hide our relationship. We’ll end up, like, crouched behind our menus at Shake Shack.”
“You’re right. So you just keep playing like a badass and I’ll, I dunno, quote you less or something, and I’ll just bring in your tuna sub money for you for a while.”
“See if you can distract him for a few innings, and we’ll put our money on the fifth.” Puck sighs and tips his head back against the dugout wall. “Fifteen days until the break. I love you.”
“Me too. See you after the game. Jelly omelettes on me.”
National League fails to repeat, but Jones, Gonzalez shine in loss.
By Finn Hudson/MLB.com @FinnHudson
Chicago, Illinois
The National League fell to the American League, 4-2, on Tuesday night, but New York had a lot to be proud of as a pair of Mets made names for themselves on a soggy night in Chicago.
Led by strong outings from Detroit’s Justin Verlander and Houston’s Jared Pettitte, the AL held the NL to five hits, blanking 12.
One of the only offensive heroes was Mets shortstop Marquis Jones, making his Midsummer Classic debut. Jones, originally from the South Side of Chicago, went 2-3 with the only extra-base hits for the NL. He was also responsible for the team’s only runs, when Aaron Avila (LAD) and Bo Williams (ATL) came around to score on Jones’s opposite-field triple.
On the other side of the ball was Mets closer Feliz Gonzalez, who finished the first half with a league-leading 23 saves, 11 of them coming in games decided by one run. NL manager Brandon Inge called for Gonzalez in the 8th and let him finish out the game. Gonzalez racked up five strikeouts in his 2.0 innings of work, hitting up to 99 mph in the ninth.
…
“Dude. Dude,” Puck’s hisses into the phone when Finn answers. “Guess what?”
“Hmm?” Finn takes the Clif bar he’d just bitten into out of his mouth with one hand and opens his laptop with his other elbow.
“Christiansen.” Puck makes a squeaking noise Finn’s never heard before. “Got benched.”
“Oh shit, wait, really?” Finn has twitter up before he realizes this may actually be that insider access he’s not supposed to write about. “The sub-.200 hitting finally catch up to him?”
“Guess so! I saw him coming out of Willie’s office looking like he wanted to punch someone, and the next thing we all knew, the lineup card got changed!”
“Willie must be coming up with a press-friendly reason before we all get the new lineup,” Finn says gleefully, pulling up a draft of his pre-game notes and adding the news to the bottom.
“I’m going to go work on avoiding him until game time, but hey! Guess they figured out trade value means nothing if the guy doesn’t belong in your lineup either.”
“Pretty much. Just remember: six more days.”
With the first half of Finn’s first big league season almost completely under his belt, he’s learned that some things about the beat are exactly like he’d pictured, and others aren’t at all like anything he could have prepared himself for. One of the main differences, he decides, is just how plugged in he needs to be at all times. He’s expected to be tweeting all the time, and not just about baseball. “Build your personal brand as an individual in the MLB.com family,” his boss likes to say, so Finn tweets about music when he’s out to lunch with Puck, or livetweets episodes of Black Panther as he catches up. Most of the time, neither of them mind, and Finn has to admit there is something satisfying about seeing his follower numbers go up.
What is also means, Finn quickly learned his first week, is that his boss knows he can reach Finn at any hour of the day. So when Finn’s phone rings at 7am on the morning of a night game, he knows he has to unwrap himself from Puck and answer it.
“Hudson.” Finn winces. His boss doesn’t talk. He barks.
“H- good morning, George.”
“Hudson. Good news. Do you remember when Valentine wore the disguise?”
“Um?” Finn googles as fast as he can while he clears his throat and makes other waking-up noises in an attempt to stall. “Yes. Yes, sir. The ejection.” Finn forces out a chuckle, looking longingly at Puck and his nice warm bed. “Iconic.”
“You got it, Hudson. And you’re going to cover the 20th anniversary of it for the MLB.com homepage.”
Finn blinks, processing as much of that sentence as he can. “Oh, wow. Uh, I mean, thank you, sir. I really appreciate this opportunity.”
“You got it, Hudson. Look, I know we had that dust-up with the third baseman, but we’ve been extraordinarily pleased with your work this year. You deserve this. You got a pen and paper? I have phone numbers for you.”
Finn grabs his tablet from the kitchen table and starts typing as George talks. Piazza. Henderson. Alfonzo. Finn can feel his eyes getting wider as he’s typing names and phone numbers of Hall of Famers and other famous Mets he’ll be talking to personally. On the phone.
“...and other than a Mets-focused recap on Tuesday night, you’re on vacation until Friday, Hudson.”
“George?”
“Eh, we can get a general writer to cover the Home Run Derby, and you’ve been working your tail off. Enjoy the break.”
Finn managed to end the call without offering George his and Puck’s first-born child in gratitude, and he crawls back into bed behind Puck, trying to calm his racing heart. Puck half-turns in his sleep and drapes his arm and leg across Finn, burying his face in Finn’s neck.
“Mmwelcome back,” Puck snuffles. Finn kisses him on the forehead.
“Can’t wait to tell you about that news,” Finn whispers.
“Me too. Me too.” Puck sighs in his half-sleep, blowing warm arm across Finn’s neck. He can’t imagine any better feeling. “Three days.”
“Dude, I don’t think there were ever any mice in here,” Puck grunts as he lifts the futon over the last set of stairs.
“There were! Maurice and her babies!” Finn does his best to sound wounded, even though Puck can’t see him from the other side of the futon.
“Maurice is a-- okay, but they’ve been gone for months now. And you have to admit, my couch has way more room for two-person naps.” Puck drops his end at the curb and Finn follows a second later, feeling a little out of breath and vowing to take up jogging again.
“I know,” Finn says, reaching for Puck’s hand as they walk back into their building. “This is all really weird.”
Puck stops inside the door and raises an eyebrow--the same eyebrow always, Finn notices ruefully. “The time to change your mind about this was probably sometime before that nice Italian family moved into my apartment.”
Finn rolls his eyes. “Dork,” he says, imitating Puck. “I just mean this.” Finn gestures between them and then up to his apartment. “Six months ago, we had no idea what the hell we were doing. You had some weird spring training-specific yips. You did!” Finn presses when Puck starts to protest and grins instead. “And I’m pretty sure the first time I met Leslie, I told her her earrings looked like birds.”
“The blue ones? They do!”
“Right? But we were totally green, and now look at us. We’re pretty damn awesome, and we’re doing it together.”
Puck cocks his head, looking like he’s watching Finn for a long minute before he leans up and kisses Finn softly, wrapping his free arm around Finn’s neck.
“Feels different without potato skins in the way,” Finn murmurs when Puck pulls away.
“Shhhh.” Puck leans back up and this time, the kiss isn’t quite as soft. They stand just inside the lobby of Finn’s building for what feels like long close to an hour, kissing for long minutes at a time until they have to pull away for gasps of breath and then finding each other’s mouths again. Finn’s hands are splayed across Puck’s back, under his Hurricanes t-shirt, and he has the fleeting thought that he can’t remember the last time he was able to feel welts there.
“You think everyone gets this lucky?” Puck asks when he finally pulls away and rests his head on Finn’s shoulder.
“I think,” Finn pauses, watching Puck play with the neckline of his shirt. “I think if they do, they should take the time to appreciate it, because it feels way more awesome that way.”
“How nice of MLB to give us a built-in four days for that.” Puck pulls back to grin at Finn. “They’re so thoughtful.”
“Do you want to send them flowers? Or those chocolate-covered fruit things everyone in the press box likes?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Puck shrugs and then pulls one side of his mouth up into a half-smile. “But can we wait until we’re done appreciating each other first?”
“I think we owe it to MLB to do that.” Finns says, putting on his best solemn face. “It’s our duty, really.”
“Agreed.” Puck slides his hand into Finn’s again and tugs him toward the stairs.
“You know, you never let me explain why I really wanted to keep the futon.” Finn waits until Puck’s led him all the way up to their apartment and closed the door bend them. “It has tremendous sentimental value. It’s the first place I, you know…” He waggles his fingers at Puck in an approximation of the thing he did to Puck that first afternoon.
“Oh, I remember. Believe me, I remember.”
“Want to go do some new things on the other couch?”
“Thank god for subletters who really really want to live in Queens,” Finn says, and now he’s a feeling a little breathless for other reasons.
“You’re blushing,” Puck sing-songs, walking backwards toward the couch. “I should probably mention now that I have a lot of ideas for those new things. I’ve been saving them up.” Puck pulls his shirt over his head as they get to the couch, and he lies down, pulling Finn down on top of him.
“Oh yeah?” Finn asks, and now it’s his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Show me.”
